


tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

by wearealltalesintheend



Category: Backstrom (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Oblivious Valentine, Peter is too dramatic for his own good, What Did You Expect, impromptu poetry corner, it's niedermayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 03:12:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9800300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: " "what do you really want, Peter?"Her question catches him by surprise and he hesitates before answering. He thinks of Nadia standing against the window with the snow falling outside and he thinks of sharing whiskey late at night at the station, and he thinks he knows the answer. But in the back of his mind there is the whisper of hazel eyes and sly smiles and take out food at the station and public library in Sunday's afternoons, and Peter is not sure of anything at all."or, alternatively, how it takes time but Peter finds what he wants.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heeey!
> 
> So, first of all, I know, I know, this show is cancelled, but I just finished watching it and I'm absolutely in love with this pairing and I'm going down with this ship. So, yes, I am going to scream at the void even if I'm not entirely happy with this work.
> 
> That being said, C'mon folks, let's keep this fandom alive.

_"and indeed there will be time"_

 

.

.

.

 

After their conversation in the car, Valentine slowly stops.

 

Not the flirting, of course, but the meaning behind it. Or maybe it's Peter who learns to see it as it really is, just a part of his personality, and he figures he ought not to take it seriously. Valentine teases and flirts, and Peter ignores it with a smile, it makes navigating through their conversations easier, if slightly annoying.

 

He's not sure when it happens, or how it happens, all he knows is that one day he is expecting the heat behind the words but finds only a teasing smirk and mischief glinting in hazel eyes. Peter falters in his words, feeling unbalanced and wrong-footed in the conversation, and it gets him a grin and a wink and the the man is gone.

 

At first, he thinks it's just another approach, a way to get under his skin, but then it keeps happening and Peter is at a loss.

 

He is not sure when it happens, but he supposes it was somewhere near the time Valentine and Nadia started having conversations in a confusing mix of english and french.

 

_( Valentine knows french. Peter files that under things he hadn't seen coming. )_

 

It serves him right, he supposes. He should know better and leave jumping to conclusions for the lieutenant. He knows little of Valentine, and he can't help but wonder.

 

.

.

.

 

_"my soul is like a shepherd, it knows the wind and the sun and it walks hand in hand with the Seasons"_

 

.

.

.

 

He's at the station and it's not as quiet as he would like, it's a whirlwind of voices and ideas and people and _energy_ , but that's fine, Peter is used to the chaos. He sits at his desk and watches, observes the hustle as an outsider, quietly eating his lunch.

 

Mostly, he eats alone.

 

Sometimes Gravely comes by to ask about paperwork and ends up spending a few minutes complaining about the lieutenant. Or sometimes Moto will be around just because and sit in the chair in front of him and start talking about his latest case or how he wants to lose the uniform. The others accompany him at times as well, but mostly they are swept away with the flow of people coming and going. Lately, Nadia is bound to stop by, and sometimes she stays and sometimes she gives him an odd look before walking away. 

 

But mostly, he eats alone.

 

It's one of these days, when he's flipping through files and quietly eating his salad, that there is a dull thud and a bag is dumped on his desk and a voice says _oh my god is that a dead body?_

 

That's all the warning he gets before Valentine is all over the place. He invades Peter's personal space and plucks the pictures out of his hands with a _seriously? You are looking at flayed arms while eating? that's gross_ and then _is that all your lunch? Pretty boy, you are luck I ordered extra,_ and then there are chinese take out containers in front of him and Valentine is gone.

 

In the whirlwind that is the police station, Valentine is a hurricane of his own, Peter decides.

 

Later, when Nadia comes by, she finds him eating chinese food and gives him the oddest of looks.

 

.

.

.

 

_"distracted from distraction by distraction;"_

.

.

.

 

Before being transfered, back in his old division, working strictly meant what it usually means: forensic analysis, paperwork, ocasional chase in the streets of Portland.

 

Working under Backstrom is anything but usual.

 

Working with the lieutenant means late nights and odd hours and unconventional methods and the strangest  requests. It  also means having Amy Gazanian stopping by at unpredictable times to continue whatever argument she and Backstrom have going.

 

Besides the unnerving prospect of having the Head of the Civilian Oversight Committee visiting the station, it's also sad and a little heartbreaking to watch, because that's two people in love with one another and an ocean between them. Peter sees the way she steels herself before going inside the office and he knows there is a storm brewing.

 

Moreso, working with Backstrom means having Gregory Valentine waltzing in and around the station more often than not.

 

It's one of these days where Peter can hear the voices raising in the lieutenant's office and it's winter and Nadia is telling him about Paris and it feels important, it feels like she's offering him a piece of herself and Peter is grateful and glad she would trust him so. She stands against the window and she looks beautiful. She looks like art, with the snow falling outside, the buildings and rooftops covered with the soft white blanket, the sun casting a pale light, she is all red lips and long lashes and blond hair and Peter thinks _this is what poems are written about_ and he might be a little in love.

 

Nadia is talking about the Seine and the lights in the bridge at night, but in the corner of his eyes he can see Valentine walking in, bundled up in cheap scarves and battered coats and gloves, arms full of take out bags and a hideous red poncho, and Peter finds difficult to focus on Paris and the Eiffel Tower.

 

And Nadia is still talking and she is still so, _so_ beautiful, her slight accent filling the air, and it's soothing and familiar and Peter chases the feeling and nods and smiles and tries to pay attention, but then there is movement by the door and if he tilts his head just a bit to the side he can see Valentine struggling to balance his bags and the poncho and take off his layers of coats and gloves and scarves. He sees him huff in frustration and he sees irritation creasing his forehead, and Peter feels his own eyebrows furrowing because he hears the snickers and the mocking of the officers around and _no one is going to help_ _him._

 

And it's so rude and maddening and frustrating and it's bothering him, so Peter does the right thing, the polite thing, the thing that anyone should have done sooner. He excuses himself from his conversation with Nadia and she gives him the same odd look, and he thinks he should ask but the bags are balancing dangerously and there is a laugh turned into a cough and the question fades from his mind.

 

Peter catches the bags before they fall and it smells like Thai food and the poncho is even more hideous from upclose. There is surprise in Valentine's eyes and something warm and soft, and it's new and Peter is not sure what to make of it, but then _well, aren't you a knight in shining armor,_ and that at least is familiar and he knows how to deal with, so he rolls his eyes, ignores the comment and holds the bags.

 

Peter waits as the coats and scarves are hung by the door, and he dutifully tells him about Dr.Gazanian and the lieutenant's closed door and the raised voices. He watches as Valentines sighs, shakes his head, purse his lips because _that's the emergency?_ and _I'm a busy person, you know, he can't just call me everytime Amy dumps him._

And Peter agrees and he thinks the lieutenant might want to ask him about their case, since it involved several supposedly missing old chinese vases and oriental ornaments. He hands Valentine the photos of the antiques, explains where they were found and with who, which leads him into the how. Peter expects to be cut off or have the conversation politely turned away from the specifics. Instead, he gets Valentine perching on his desk and opening take out boxes while gesturing with the chopsticks for him to continue.

 

Peter smiles and finds himself a little lost, but there is warmth in his chest and it's nice, so he shakes his head and he talks.

 

Half an hour later, when Amy storms angrily past them and Backstrom pokes his head out of his office to bellow for Valentine and the ancient vases, they are still talking and eating the Thai food.

 

After Valentine is gone and the office door is closed, Peter shakes his head and looks at the window and remembers Nadia. She is nowhere to be found, and he feels a stab of guilt for neglecting their conversation, but Peter will make it up for her later, and Valentine is closer friends with her anyway, she  could have joined them, had she wished so.

 

It doesn't erase the guilt, but there are two take out boxes on his desk and Peter can't help but smile.

 

.

.

.

 

_"so long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee."_

 

.

.

.

 

Peter doesn't usually go to the public library, he prefers buying his own copies, but their chinese médium case had sparked his curiosity on the different chinese daggers and their signature marks. And his research asked for a rather old book which, in Portland, seemed to be found only in the library.

 

That is how he finds himself wandering through the dusty aisles of Portland's Public Library on a Sunday afternoon.

 

He finds his book and he walks around, looking and savoring the peace and quiet only libraries bring. But it's when he is making his way to the counter that Peter spots a familiar mop of dark hair.

 

Valentine is sitting in one of the farthest armchairs, in a corner isolated from the other tables and nearer the books. He is engrossed in his reading, curled up in the chair, and there is something relaxed and open and vulnerable in his face, and Peter feels like he is watching something he shouldn't. If Valentine wanted to let down his guard near Peter, he should do it of his own volition, not because Peter caught him in a private moment.

 

So Peter turns and leaves.

 

But his curiosity bubbles and festers inside him, and he checks his book at the counter and he asks _does he come here often?_

 

"Who? Oh, you mean Val?" The woman at the counter is middle aged, nearing her fifties, and her face softens and a maternal smile graces her lips, "yes, he always comes around in the weekends. He used to spend a lot of time here when he was a little kid." She looks at him with crinkles around her eyes, "are you a friend of his?"

 

That gives him pause. Are they friends? Peter thinks of the look on Valentine's face and snippets of conversations on firescapes and lunch on the station.

 

"Yes, something like that."

 

"Good, he could use a friend like you."

 

He is not sure what she means, so he nods and leaves.

 

It's a Wednesday when he finishes with the book. Peter considers returning it after work, but there is no telling at what time that would be, so instead he tells himself he will do it earlier tomorrow.

 

It's Sunday again when he finally gets to return it.

 

And he hasn't meant to find Valentine again, but he had wanted to look for another book since he was there anyway and suddenly he found himself face to face with hazel eyes and a teasing smirk.

 

Valentine had been holding a battered copy of the _Iliad_ and asked Peter what he was looking for. He had clicked his tongue in disapproval at Peter's choice and that had been the start of a discussion over the merits of greek authors that then evolved into discussing classic plays.

 

And Peter is not sure when they moved to the armchairs, but he drags one near Valentine's usual and sits down.

 

It doesn't become a routine, it's just an overlapping of schedules. Valentine is always there on weekends and Sunday is the best day for Peter to return his books. Still, it's not a routine and it doesn't happen every Sunday, sometimes Peter has paperwork to finish or Nadia is around, and sometimes it's Valentine that is missing.

 

It's one of those Sundays where the old airmchair in the corner of the library is empty and he is ignoring the pang of disappointment in his chest, but there is a book on the chair and the glaring yellow of a post-it note screams against the black cover.

 

On the note there is only his name written in Valentine's cursive letter, and underneath Peter reads _The Hollow Men_ and thinks he can enjoy T. S. Eliot once in a while.

 

It's Thursday when Nadia comes for dinner and spots the book on the table. She raises her eyebrows at him, because _pessimistic much?_ And while it's a darker view of the world than his, Peter finds the poetry intriguing and he has so many questions and theories, so he merely shrugs and she kisses him and the book slips from his mind.

 

 

.

.

.

 

_"And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from."_

 

.

.

.

 

They are at Nadia's favorite restaurant. It's french and it reminds her of home, and with the moonlight reflecting in her hair, she looks beautiful, she looks like art.

 

The place is nice and the wine is good, it warms him and softens his edges, and it should be a pleasent evening, but Nadia is fidgeting and avoiding his eyes, so Peter reaches across the table and covers her hand with his and, "is everything all right?"

 

She doesn't answer him right away, instead she meets his gaze for the first time that night and Peter feels his stomach sinks, knows in his bones what is to come.

 

"I really like you, Peter. I care for you and I trust you with my life," when she speaks, he is not surprised, "but I do  not think this is working."

 

"Nadia, I like you, you must know that?"

 

"Oh, Peter, I never doubted that."

 

"Then may I ask why?"

 

She tilts her head to the side, eyes studying his face, "what do you really want, Peter?"

 

Her question catches him by surprise and he hesitates before answering. He thinks of Nadia standing against the window with the snow falling outside and he thinks of sharing whiskey late at night at the station, and he thinks he knows the answer. But in the back of his mind there is the whisper of hazel eyes and sly smiles and take out food at the station and public library in Sunday's afternoons, and Peter is not sure of anything at all.

 

Still, he looks at Nadia and it's easier to say _you_.

 

But he has always been an open book and she must see his turmoil displayed in his eyes, because she shakes her head and gives him a sad smile, _I'm not a substitute, Peter._

 

Under the streetlight, she looks like art, beautiful and a little tragic. There is beauty in her sadness.

 

.

.

.

 

_"for everything that's lovely is but a brief, dreamy, kind delight."_

 

.

.

.

 

If this is heartbreak, Peter thinks the poets might have been exagerating in their sonnets.

 

There isn't utter despair or encompassing darkness. There is no hole in his chest or overwhelming pain. The world is still spinning and he isn't broken in a thousand pieces.

 

Instead, there is a sting of disappointment and sadness and mourning for lost possibilities. He drinks and thinks of what might have been.

 

Later, he tries meditating but his mind is still fuzzy from the wine and the whiskey and images and memories and thoughts keep breaking his concentration.

 

He doesn't sleep that night, instead he lays on his bed and thinks about what Nadia said.

_What do you want, Peter?_

_._

_._

_._

_"the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing."_

_._

_._

_._

Valentine calling him isn't that much rare, he does it sometimes when the lieutenant isn't answering his phone, but Peter doesn't think anyone at the station had ever seen it happen before. And it's not as if he's hiding it or ashamed, it just never came up and it never happened with anyone nearby.

 

This time though, he's talking with Moto when his cell phone goes off, an obnoxious, loud music blaring from the speakers and making the officer wince and give him a bewildered look. Peter shrugs, it's not as if he had been the one to set it, and answers his phone.

 

Valentine wants to know _why the hell is Backstrom not answering his damn phone_ and Peter is not enterely sure why is that, only that the lieutenant had been in a bad mood and left earlier that day, and usually this is Valentine's cue to say something flirty and hang up, but there is silence down the other end of the line and Valentine isn't hanging up, so Peter starts to worry and _are you all right?_

 

There is a sigh, and then Valentine is talking about cars breaking down in the streets and Peter looks at the clock. It's almost five and things are slow in the station, forensics are running smoothly, he wouldn't be missed, so he asks for an address and hangs up.

 

"Man, this is a bad idea."

 

Peter almost jumps when Moto speaks, having forgotten the officer had been there. He runs the sentence over in his head, trying to find the meaning or context, but it looks like it's going to rain and he is in a hurry, so instead he says _I'm sorry?_

 

"Valentine? Really? C'mon, man. That's the dumbest idea you got." And Moto is shaking his head and giving him a sad look Peter is not sure how to interpret, "did you forget the Trippi deal?"

 

No, Peter did not forget the utter mess that was the Dante Trippi murder case. It was impossible to forget, really. That case had been hell to work with, and even he would agree that had Valentine told the truth from the beginning, it would have made things a little easier.

 

But Peter is not sure why Moto is bringing it up now, everyone on the team had more or less striken a friendship with the man at some point, and giving him a ride back to the Barge was hardly the same as breaking a dealer's jaw.

 

"And hey, this is not about him being a guy," and now Peter thinks he might know where this is heading, but before he can say anything Moto presses on, "you wanna play both teams, that's fine. But, c'mon Niedermayer, he's a thief and he's crooked, he pops up in half of the investigations. Why do you think he's the lieutenant's informant?"

 

And okay, Peter can recognize the truth in that statements, Valentine _is_ awfully imersed in the underworld of Portland, but there's more to him than that. He may deal some illegally acquired objects and facilitate a few schems, but Peter listens and he observes and sometimes he reads files, so he knows it's not that simple. "Valentine is, indeed, the lieutenant's informant because of his connections and uncanny ability to blend in. And, while it would be best if he did have a less sketchy job, it doesn't mean he's a bad person."

 

"Hey, I know that, I'm with you there, he's my friend too. I'm just saying be careful, man. Thief dating a cop, it can get nasty. It did, with a couple of friends. I'm your friend and I'm saying get him to do things by the book, right with the law."

 

"You _are_ aware even the lieutenant didn't quite manage that, right?" Peter sighs, checks his watch, "And we are not dating, Moto, so this argument is pointless."

 

"Yeah, right," and now the officer is grinning at him and Peter is not sure why no one believes him on this matter, "not yet, you mean? And trust me if anyone can manage that, is you."

Peter laughs and shakes his head because he is not sure what else to do. There isn't much he can say that would change his friend's mind, and the clock says it's been ten minutes since he hung up the phone and there is lightining outside. "We're not. It's just a ride."

"Sure, whatever you say, Niedermayer. Now go get your boy, romeo."

_._

_._

_._

_" Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky "_

_._

_._

_._

"I hate the rain.”

 

Valentine scowls as he gets enters the car and shakes the water out of his clothes. It had started to rain not long after Peter left the station, and by the time he had spotted Valentine, it had been pouring and the man had taken refuge inside his car.

 

“ _For the rain it raineth everyday._ ” Peter quotes and feels his mouth curling up in a smile, he risks a sidelong glance at him. Valentine is glaring at him and Peter would probably feel bad, but his hair is dripping water and sticking to different directions, and the effect is lost as Peter thinks he rather looks like a grumpy wet kitten.

 

Peter laughs, Valentine glowers, mutters _I hate you, Niedermayer_ , and Peter feels a burst of warm affection spread on his chest. It’s sudden and new and familiar, and this is really not the time for having epiphanies, so instead of looking closely on what it means, Peter’s quiet laughter settles down to a smile and he looks fondly at the man in the passenger seat. There is a pang of longing but he ignores that too.

 

“Actually, I believe love and hate are the same energy, what matters is how you decide to absorve that energy.”

 

“How budhist of you.” Valentine gives him a sly smile, and Peter knows he’s being teased, “you know, I can show you just how much _energy_ I have.”

 

There is mischief in his eyes and he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, but Peter shakes his head and keeps driving through the rain and wonders when had Valentine stopped meaning it and when had Peter started wanting to say yes.

 

.

.

.

 

_“and I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope.”_

_._

_._

_._

 

When he arrives home, the first thing Peter does is pour himself a drink. He downs it in one go and then fills another glass before sitting in the couch. It’s still raining outside, lightining and thunder roaring in the sky.

 

He sits and nurses his scotch, tries to remember when it happened. Was it since the start? He doesn’t think so, he is unwilling to believe it happened overnight or in the span of a second. He thinks of discussing art over impromptu lunches at the station, two armchairs in the corner of the Public Library, a book with a post-it note and careful caligaphry spelling out his name, and there is a warm feeling curling inside his ribcage and making his heart flutter, and he understands.

 

_What do you want, Peter?_

He laughs a little hysterically, because how could he have missed it? And it makes sense now, and there isn’t doubt or confusion, he is sure of his answer.

 

But it’s a little sad, too. Because Valentine flirts and teases, but Valentine doesn’t date and he doesn’t do romance, and that’s okay, except Peter knows he could never settle for that. It's a special kind of torture. He would always long for more and it wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

 

But nothing has to change merely because Peter had an epiphany. They are friends, and he can accept that. Peter wears his heart on his sleeve, but he knows how to conceal it as well. It’s not hard and it worked so far without him even knowing.

 

So Peter drinks and meditates and he longs.

 

.

.

.

 

_"but I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet;"_

 

.

.

.

 

There is no great change between them, Peter still ignores and deflects and pretends, while Valentine flirts and teases. It's familiar, it's routine, it's easy, and Peter is almost content.

 

Except, he is aware now of the caged bird on his chest, longing and singing and calling and hurting. He almost misses the bliss of ignorance. There is no reprieve or soothing for him.

 

Still, there is a fragile peace and he walks on thin ice, careful not to step into any shards, careful not to shatter the ground.

 

He should have known it wouldn't last.

It comes to an end in a Thursday morning, Peter is put on babysitting the lieutenant duty and appointed to go get him to the crime scene.

 

It's cold and windy and the sun is hidden behind dark clouds, and he stands in front of the boat's door gathering his thoughts before knocking. Peter raises his hand, but then the door is thrown open and skinny, blonde man is standing awkwardly in the doorway. He has his shirt half buttoned and hickeys on his neck, and Peter doesn't need to be told why the man was there. He steps aside with a sigh, lets the blonde scurry away, but doesn't climb down the stairs.

 

He feels a bitter taste on his mouth, and it's stupid because Peter has no right to be jealous. Still, there is a knife cutting his chest open, and fire boiling his blood. Peter takes a deep breath, steels himself and knocks twice before walking in.

 

The lieutenant is passed out on the couch, pantless and several take-out boxes littering the ground around him. Peter shakes his arm, calls his name, and receives a bleary-eyed glare. He dutifully smiles, wishes him good morning, watches as his boss stumbles into the bathroom.

 

Peter begins picking up the empty boxes from the ground and carrying them behind the counter to the crash can to busy himself, but then Valentine walks out of his room and Peter drops it all on the ground.

 

The flickering lamp in the ceiling casts a half light in the room and Valentine looks unfairly gorgeous and he is smiling and it's stunning and Peter is a moth being pulled into a flame.

 

He gets down and starts picking up the boxes he dropped, feeling a little more like himself now that Valentine was out of sight.

 

"Someone woke up clumsy this morning, I see."

 

Valentine purred and Peter could hear his footsteps approaching the counter, but he doesn't look up. He doesn't trust himself to speak either, so he just cleans the mess on the floor, and breathes deeply.

 

"I can give you a hand, If you want."

 

Peter inhales sharply and tries to ignore the innuendo, "there is no need." His voice has a tremor he can't quite hide, and he is sure he must be blushing. Still, he has no excuse to stall anymore.

 

"Hey there, handsome."

 

Valentine is closer than expected, leaning against the counter, and Peter feels a blush rising from his neck, and he smells of soap and cologne and of _Valentine_ , but there are biting marks on his neck and hickeys on his collarbone and Peter wants to kiss them all, erase them from his skin and cover them with his own.

 

There is grin on Valentine's lips, he looks like the cat who got the cream, and his eyes are dark and wide and a little surprised, and Peter knows Valentine knows.

 

Strangely, he feels more relieved than anything; he is not scared, he didn't doubt Valentine's attraction for him, but he is resigned to the fact it won't ever go farther than that. Still, the thinly veiled lust in Valentine's eyes is enough to spark his own; the ice beneath his feet is cracking and Peter is falling.

 

"You are always welcome to kiss me, you know." Valentine speaks and his breath tingles Peter's skin, and his control shatters irrevocably in a thousand pieces and Peter lunges forward and their lips meet.

 

He kisses Valentine and it's a little awkward with the counter between them and it's wonderful and exhilariating and Peter needs him _closer_ , and-

 

"Oh for the love of God, _Valentine!"_

 

Backstrom sounds exhasperated and annoyed, and they quickly jump apart in shock. Peter stumbles back, hits the oven and pots and pans come falling down, while Valentine straightens his back and leans away from the counter. It's a mess, and Peter stammers, unsure of what to say, blinks, shakes his head. "Lieutenant, I-"

 

" _Shut up, Niedermayer._ _Valentine!_ Stop seducing my team, damn it! It's too goddamn early for this."

 

"You are just pissed because you, _detective_ , owe me two hundred bucks. Now, pay up."

 

Peter watches the exchange from the kitchen and vaguely wonders if the brothers forgot he was still there. He braces himself against the refrigerator, tries to collect his thoughts, centers himself. His lips are tingling and he can still taste Valentine in his tongue, but there is a blooming bruise on his heart, something shifted inside him, there is no illusion of peace or resignation, just longing and yearning. There is more hurt than he imagined, and bitterness coating the knowledge that it was all about a bet.

_The love of your life is hiding a secret from you._

 

The brothers are still bickering in the living room, so Peter squares his shoulders, clears his throat, steps forward, "I believe Gravely is waiting for you at the station, lieutenant. She already texted me several times."

 

"Oh my God, Valentine, what did you _do?_ He's even more annoying now. I hate the both of you! Niedermayer, let's go before you give me a stroke."

 

"Sir, that is not how a str-"

 

" _Shut up, Niedermayer!"_

 

He is at the door when he gives in and turns to look back. Valentine is at the botton of the stairs, sly smirk in place, and he winks at Peter, says, "give me a call and we can finish this later."

 

Peter closes the door.

 

They drive in silence, only occasionally interrupted by the lieutenant muttering and glaring at him. It's uncomfortable and Peter is almost relieved when Backstrom's cell phone rings.

 

"What do you want?"

 

" _Where the hell are you? I sent Niedermayer half an hour ago, we have a case and you are late!"_

 

"Yeah, well, you can thank him for that. If he wasn't too busy sucking Valentine's-"

 

_"Lieutenant!"_

 

"-face! Jesus, get your mind out of the gutter, Gravely."

 

_"What-"_

 

"Goodbye, detective!"

 

Peter grips the wheel until his knuckles turn white, because now there will be _questions_ and _rumors_ and-

 

"You are a moron, Niedermayer."

 

He contemplates throwing the car into the nearest tree, if only that would mean skipping this conversation. "I don't want to talk abou it, sir."

 

"And isn't that a first?" Backstrom snorts, pauses, "you know he doesn't do the whole dating thing, right?"

 

Peter sighs. He can see the top of a large oak tree a few blocks away.

 

"I am aware, yes."

 

"And you still went and fell in love with him? _Damn,_ you really are an idiot."

 

The oak tree is really close now. Peter bets he could survive if he angled the car just right.

 

"And yes, it _is_ that obvious. It's like watching a soap opera but in English."

 

Peter doesn't answer but glances wistfully at the massive oak tree. The lieutenant doesn't speak again until they are at the parking lot, turning off the engine.

 

"For what it's worth, I think you should tell him," a pause, "or not. Whatever, it's not like I care. Now hurry up, Niedermayer, your face is annoying me."

 

.

.

.

 

_"because I know no other way than this"_

 

.

.

.

 

He succesfully avoids Valentine for sixteen days, thirteen hours and 37 minutes.

 

It's not too hard, he holes himself up in the forensic labs at lunch or goes out to eat, dodges the library and ignores the calls. There weren't even many calls, for that matter. Only two or three, mostly late at night, when Peter had been asleep. He never listens to the voicemails, he is not sure there is any point in that.

 

Sixteen days, thirteen hours and 37 minutes have passed when the doorbell rings.

 

It's nearing ten at night and Peter had been meditating. Still, whoever is outside rings insistently and then proceeds to pound on his door.

 

" _Niedermayer, open the damn door or I swear to God-"_

 

Peter rolls his eyes, of course it would be Backstrom. Who else would knock on someone's apartment at almost eleven o'clock?

 

Still, when he opens his door, he isn't expecting to see Valentine standing there, looking sullen and ready to bolt if the lieutenant didn't have a death grip in his arm.

 

Backstrom barrels in, dragging his brother inside and Peter barely has time to step away. It's all happening too fast and he isn't sure he is following it all, there is a strangeness to reality, like his world was slightly off-kilt.

 

"Lieutenant, is there anythi-"

 

"Shut up, just shut up, Niedermayer. I can't with you two anymore. He," Peter follows the direction of the accusing finger and finds it pointed at a scowling Valentine, "is sulking. It's ridiculous and it makes him even more of  pain in my ass." There is muttering and glowering, but Backstrom ignores it and soldiers on, turning his glare to Peter, "And _you_ look like a goddamn kicked puppy and sighing longingly or something and it's driving me crazy."

 

Peter doesn't deny, there isn't much reason for pride now, still, the silence is unnerving, so he blurts out, "how did you know where I live?"

 

"Paquet."

 

It's Valentine who answers and it sounds like an acusation and a question and a statement, all at once. "Oh."

 

"You both are _idiots!_ I am surrounded by _idiots_ , and even worse, idiots _in love."_ The lieutenant spits the word like it's poison, like it's acid, and Peter wonders if he is thinking about Amy. "It makes me sick."

 

"Yeah, well, you are the one who dragged me here, so deal with it." Valentine snaps, "Nobody asked you to stick your fat nose in this."

 

"First of all, my nose is _fine_ ," there is a pause, Peter thinks his boss might be really having a stroke, "second, I _had to,_ okay, between you and Shakespeare in love over there, I am going insane! And Deb said to cut stressful things off my life, so there you go, doctor's orders, you can't argue with that."

 

"If I may, sir, I don't think that's what your doctor meant b-"

 

"No, you may _not,_ Niedermayer. Here is what's going to happen. I am going to take a cab home and enjoy a peaceful night in without any whining and nagging." Backstrom throws the door open, gestures at Peter and Valentine, "The two of you are going to resolve this. I don't care how. Friendship bracelets, eloping to Vegas, selling your souls to an underground cult. Whatever. Hug it out of your system, fuck it out of your system, kill each other. _I. Don't. Care_. Just put an end to this and take us all out of our misery."

 

The lieutenant slams the door closed and Peter thinks he might have just developed claustrophobia, because they are standing in the middle of his living room and the walls are closing in and there isn't enough air for them to breathe.

 

"Fuck you, Niedermayer."

 

And okay, Peter had been expecting hostility, all right, but he didn't take in account the hurricane that was Valentine.

 

"I deserve that, I suppose. But-"

 

"Fuck you and fuck your excuses, _you should have told me."_

 

And now Valentine sounded hurt and Peter feels guilty and confused, "you know why, then?"

 

"Why you've been avoiding me for the past two weeks, you mean?"

 

"I am so sorry, Val."

 

And Peter means it. He is sorry he messed up their friendship and he is sorry he can't be satisfied with what Valentine offered. He takes a step towards him, hands twitching in an aborted motion of reaching for the younger man.

 

"What are you sorry for, Peter?"

 

Valentine looks tired and defeated and there is sadness in the corners of his eyes. He looks young and a little scared, he looks vulnerable and open, and Peter feels the flutter of hope in his chest. _Hope is the thing with feathers,_ he thinks. And this feels important, he needs to get it right.

 

"I'm sorry I hurt you, I was being selfish, I did not think you would care."

 

Peter is laying his soul bare, now. He is opening the cage in his chest, letting the bluebird soar free in the sky and his heart spills on the floor.

 

"Why?" The question is choked, it's filled with awe and doubt and surprise, "why the hell me?"

 

Peter opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. There is so many words but not enough, he struggles to string them together but they sound dull and plain and pale and _that's not what I meant. That's not what I meant at all._ But Valentine is looking wide-eyed and waiting and hoping, so instead Peter says, " _I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you-"_

 

" _Because I know no other way."_   Valentine finishes softly, and Peter thinks his heart might burst, because he _hopes_ and he thinks he might be _right,_ and there is something soft and fond and familiar in Valentine's smile, "you idiot. _Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -- because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you._ "

 

Valentine doesn't say _I love you_ back directly, but Peter is pretty good at reading in between the lines, and he is patient, he can wait. And when Valentine kisses him and holds him close, like he is afraid Peter will disappear, Peter tightens his arms around him and Peter knows. _All is well when it ends well._

 

It's not perfect, but it is what they need and it is what they want. Peter thinks poetry doesn't hold a candle to this, but then Valentine closes the bedroom door and kisses his neck in a way that will bruise later, and Peter thinks nothing at all.

 

.

.

.

_"so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep."_

 

.

.

.

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you made it to the end! How about leaving a kudo or a comment so I know there are still survivors around here?
> 
> And if y'all want to talk about Valentine or Niedermayer or Backstrom or the unfairness of it all, feel free to come to _[my tumblr](http://wearealltalesintheend.tumblr.com/)_.
> 
> About the poetry, here are the titles of the poems and the authors in the order they show up:
> 
> * _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T. S. Eliot.  
>  * _The Keeper of Flocks_ by Alberto Caeiro.  
>  * _The Four Quartets_ by T. S. Eliot.  
>  * _Sonnet XVIII_ by Shakespeare.  
>  * _Four Quartets_ by T. S. Eliot.  
>  * _Never Give All the Heart_ by W. B. Yeats.  
>  * _Preludes_ by T. S. Eliot.  
>  * _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T. S. Eliot.  
>  * _The Four Quartets_ by T. S. Eliot.  
>  * _He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven_ by W. B. Yeats.  
>  * _Sonnet XVII_ by Pablo Neruda.  
>  * _Hope is the thing with feathers_ by Emily Dickinson.  
>  * _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ by T. S. Eliot.  
>  * _Sonnet XVII_ by Pablo Neruda.  
>  * _Don't Go Far Off_ by Pablo Neruda.  
>  * _Sonnet XVII_ by Pablo Neruda.  
>  *The title of this fic is also taken from _He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven_ by W. B. Yeats.
> 
> That is all, so thanks for reading and come scream with me about Backstrom on _[my tumblr](http://wearealltalesintheend.tumblr.com/)_


End file.
